Page 3 of This Love
I spent the morning getting my hair tugged, my face painted, and my nails sparkled up.
Each woman who assisted during the day had her own philosophy about weddings.
The hairdresser, who brushed out the curls only to pin them up again, which struck me as terribly pointless, told me, “This is the day you two will love each other the least.”
I puzzled over this one for a while before Tina leaned in to say, “I think she means you will love each other more and more every day after this.”
That hadn’t been the case for my parents. My mother ran my father off, then lied about him for nearly a decade. I only learned how he really felt when I escaped her.
She wasn’t invited to the wedding.
But I didn’t say this to the hairdresser.
Not to the nail tech either, when she told me, “This is the happiest day of your life.”
I couldn’t see how anyone would think that. So far, it had been frustrating and nerve-racking and scheduled to the nines.
A much happier day for me was spent photographing Lady Bird Lake in the center of Austin, the sunlight dancing over the waves. I’d point out to Tucker that the reflections looked like the water had shiny braces, and he would laugh and tell me how much he loved how I described the world.
Maybe I’d understand what the nail tech meant when I got to the end of the day. It could be that the moment we stood in front of the Justice of the Peace and said our vows that all the pain of preparation would evaporate. People said that about childbirth, too.
I wasn’t buying it. Not yet anyway.
The makeup artist came last. She was different. Practical. She winked with a vivid blue-lidded eye as she said, “Doncha worry, darling. No wedding day is perfect. Something will go wrong. It always does.”
I almost leaned away, trying to escape this pronouncement, like Maleficent weaving a curse over the infant Sleeping Beauty.
Tina cleared her throat to cut her off, arms crossed. And Tina rarely got snippy with anyone.
The woman waved her kabuki brush. “Oh, it will be all right. It won’t matter. Might be the chicken runs out. Or a groomsman loses his boutonniere. But the vows will happen. Happiness will win out, I promise.” She dabbed my cheek.
I wondered what would go wrong today.
Eventually, I made it back to my bedroom and got helped into my dress by Tina. She went to fetch Vinnie and my father. We were going to do “first look” father and daughter photos.
I stood by the lace curtains in my bedroom window, the sun streaming over my veil, when the door opened.
Vinnie scooted in first, camera in hand. He’d worked for me for almost two years as an assistant shooter. “You look gorgeous, Mija.”
He grinned at me from below a fat black mustache. His hair was glossy, plumped in front, and he wore a black jumpsuit with a big, pointed collar. He called himself Mexican Elvis and moonlighted as a lookalike in shows around town when we weren’t shooting. Working weddings in this getup got him lots of Elvis gigs.
I didn’t mind. I adored him. He’d been a good friend to Tucker and me since I’d left the big studio where I’d trained and struck out on my own. We’d met in photography class.
Vinnie had married his great love, Armando, last summer. I’d taken those photos.
He was the only person I trusted with my own big day. When I’d told him I was getting married, he had laughed. “Girl, if you could do the whole thing with selfies, you would.”
He wasn’t wrong. I did have a rather exacting look I wanted from my images.
Dad backed into the room to avoid seeing me too soon. “I might be too old to walk without looking.” He held out his arms for balance, like a tall, gray-suited scarecrow.
“You’re fine, Dad,” I told him. “Just a few steps more.”
“Circle around on three, Dad,” Vinnie said. “One, two, three.”
Dad turned.
He sucked in a breath, his eyes misting over.
